


Take Care of Business

by thisgirlnani



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Man from Uncle AU, and of course!!!!, jon and sansa are enemy agents forced to work together, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 12:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13457835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisgirlnani/pseuds/thisgirlnani
Summary: You are Agent Stark.” He says, breaking the silence.“Sansa,” She chides, “We are to be married, after all.”'There’s a slight quirk in his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Jon, then. Jon Snow.”Agent Sansa Stark is forced to team up with Agent Jon Snow, to take down a greater enemy. Their time together unravels into a mess of complicated feelings and drunken words.





	Take Care of Business

**Author's Note:**

> gah! i had to re-upload, because i accidentally deleted, but, maybe it's okay because i added a lot more and i actually like this version a lot more. it's a bit angsty, but i mean, would u rather have your jonsa any other way?

Sansa finds the idea of working with some agent from the South distasteful.

The South and North have been at each other’s throats for generations, spies on both sides being sent over by the dozens, in order to uncover the next conspiracy or threat. But, somehow, this villain is treacherous enough that he has managed to unite the two countries for a fragile moment.

“You’ll meet with the South’s agent, tomorrow. He’ll be wearing a three-headed dragon pin on the lapel of his coat.” Brienne informs her, at the mission’s briefing.

“Subtle.” She remarks, dryly.

The blonde-haired woman, sends her a disapproving glare, sliding over a manila folder. “You will be posing as an engaged couple at the event. Of course, you’ll have no trouble getting in or getting close to the mark, so take advantage of that. Get as much information as you can. We’ll update what the plan of action is, as soon as possible.”

Sansa flips through the manila folder, “Anything else?”

Brienne coughs lightly, “Well, yes. Of course, playing nice with the South will be tricky. Do your best, but we trust your judgement. If he steps out of line, kill him.”

She nods, a small shiver running up and down her spine.

* * *

The next morning, the sun is shining brightly, and the air by the café smells of salt and strong coffee. She finds him quick enough, his dragon pin, gleaming bright in the sun’s rays.

Sansa takes the seat in front of him, and he looks up at her, his grey eyes blinking, carefully wary. She leans back in her chair, and for a minute, they sit in silence, observing each other.

Her first thought is a suspicious one. _He must frequent the North on undercover missions_. This agent, _looks_ like a Northern man, yet the dragon on his coat, clearly states otherwise. _He would fit in perfectly_ , she thinks sourly.

“You are Agent Stark.” He says, breaking the silence.

“Sansa,” She chides, “We are to be married, after all.”

There’s a slight quirk in his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Jon, then. Jon Snow.” _His name is northern. His face is northern. Even his voice is northern. Was he a turncoat?_

She decides, she’d rather not know. In fact, she’d rather not learn anything about Jon Snow. In less than a month, when they’ve taken down their mark, they will part ways and never speak again. Maybe on her next mission down South, they’ll see each other, but by that time, one of them will have to die, and it will not be her.

He suddenly moves, and out of instinct, her hand reaches for her holster. His grey eyes narrow, understanding her intention, immediately. “Careful,” he growls quietly. “I was just handing you this _dangerous_ menu.”

Sansa relaxes at his words, snatching the leather-bound menu from his hand, with a roll of her eyes. “One can never be too safe, with an enemy agent.” She retorts, airily.

Jon Snow leans back with a chuckle, “Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

* * *

They go shopping after Sansa calls for the check.

(She had waved down the closest waiter, cooing sweetly, “My husband would like the check”. Jon’s brow had gone up, sharply. But he handed over his card, with a chagrined smile at the waiter.)

It’s a little French boutique, and to the ordinary observer, they’re just a couple doing some window shopping. However, for the two agents, it’s a necessary stop. Their cover story requires them to appear as a united front, and the right clothes contribute well enough, to any pretty lie.

She spins around in a sequined number that wraps around her small waist and highlights her long legs. “What do you think?” She tilts her head, questioningly. It’s not though she actually cares about his input, but there are sale associates around to listen, and a love-struck girlfriend would most likely want her boyfriend’s opinion. It’s all a character for her.

He doesn’t seem too interested, picking at his clothes in discomfort, on the couch. The associates have put him in a nice three-piece suit and wool navy coat, that she thinks make him look rather dapper. “Um, good.” He mumbles, still messing around with the fit of the coat, probably wondering which pocket will be best to conceal his gun in.

“ _Men_.” One of the sales associate comes forward to place a plush cashmere coat, around her shoulders, clucking her tongue. “My husband’s the same.” She chuckles, smoothing the coat down. “Never can give me one good bit of feedback, when I ask for it. How’d you two meet?”

Sansa catches Jon’s stare in the mirror. She smiles, lovingly at him, her husband. “I was a student in University. He was in town, when I happened to be. He worked on the Wall, Jon’s an architect, you see. One thing led to another, and…” She waves her left hand, with her new piece of jewelry. Jon had handed it to her quite unceremoniously at the café, as though he was passing the sugar. It was a lovely ring, with blue sapphires encircling a diamond, like a sparkling flower.

“Oh, how sweet.” The associate purrs. “You’re a lucky man.” She leaves, then, going to pull a matching clutch from the backroom.

Sansa takes the moment of quiet, to flounce over to Jon’s place on the couch. He looks miserable, a dark frown on his pretty face. She flicks his forehead, earning an annoyed growl. “Is your personality always this dour? I didn’t expect to enjoy this mission, but it would help if you could actually pretend to be in love with me. It’s hard acting with a wooden board.” She informs him, tartly.

“We’ll never see these people again.” He says, by way of explanation. “You won’t have to worry about my acting skills, when we meet Baelish.”

“Uncle Petyr.” She corrects.

“ _What_?”

“Uncle Petyr.” Sansa repeats, a sort of numbness starts to creep up her body. Lately she’s had this sort of reaction, at just the thought of Littlefinger. “He’s my uncle, the mark.” She almost laughs at the way his mouth sort of drops and hangs open. “Huh, you didn’t know that? The North must have failed to relay that bit of information to the South.”

* * *

He doesn’t push her for more information, until two days after, when they’re all settled in their hotel, in the Vale.

Their hotel room, courtesy of both their agencies, is a splendid presidential suite with high ceilings, and polished marble floors. There’s of course, only one bed, but Jon insisted on taking the couch in the foyer. Their first night, she snorted in disdain as she watched him drape a blanket over the cream sofa. A killer agent, with a sense of honor, how _ironic_.

But the second night, she sits on the couch with him while he flips channels on the TV, and she drinks from a bottle of whiskey.

She takes her fifth swig from the bottle, and he eyes her, an odd expression on his face. “Would you like a bigger bottle?”

He’s joking, or at least making his version of his joke. If there’s one thing she’s learnt from her short time with Jon Snow, is that his sense of humor is non-existent (and that he takes his coffee with no creamer, and two scoops of sugar).  “Are you going to help with me with this?” She challenges.

He shrugs and takes the bottle from her hand, taking a hearty swig, himself. “How is Baelish your uncle?” Jon asks, suddenly.

She suppresses a roll of her eyes, but takes back the bottle. A conversation about Baelish, requires as much alcohol as she can take. “He married Lysa Tully. If you read the mission file, that should come as no surprise. Lysa Tully is my mother’s sister. While my mother managed to marry a kind, honorable man, Aunt Lysa got herself, the exact opposite.” A lump surfaces in her throat. She’s never managed to talk about her late parents without getting emotional, but damned if she’s going to cry in front of a stranger, let alone a Southern agent.

“He used to touch me, when I was a kid.” She states coolly, staring blankly at the TV. She knows how to say this part. Baelish used to have a hold on her that felt suffocating and sickly. But, not anymore.

She sees Jon in her periphery tighten his hold on the remote control. His body visibly tenses up, and she wonders if he feels sorry for her. That wasn’t her intention. She doesn’t need another man’s useless pity. “I haven’t seen him in a while.” She shrugs. “But that’s how I was recruited by the North. They knew my connection would come in handy someday, so here I am.”

“Sansa,” She looks at him, and there’s a bright glow to his metal-colored eyes. “I’m sorry, about what happened to you.” Funnily, enough, it sounds genuine. But, he’s a professional liar, so that’s unsurprising.

She just shrugs again. “You’re not the one who owes me an apology. And trust me, he’s going to give me a lot more than that.” Sansa pictures Baelish with blood dripping down the sides of his face, while he sobs for forgiveness. It’s a vivid image, but there’s no satisfaction in the fantasy. Her finger itches for real pain to happen.

Sansa’s gaze returns to Jon, and she sees a bit of fear in his eyes. There’s a bit of something else there too, but she can’t quite place it.

* * *

The next day, is the real test.

The entire car ride to the mansion, Sansa sits back, eyes closed, breathing deep, even breaths. Jon doesn’t speak to her, but she feels the warmth of his knee against her own.

Baelish is standing in the driveway, waiting with that small, expectant smile, she’s come to loathe. His black hair, speckled with the odd grey hair is slicked back, and his navy-blue suit is pressed so neatly, there’s not a wrinkle in sight.

Ever the eager gentlemen, he opens the door for her, and she takes his outstretched hand. _I can play this game_. She steels herself to give him a bright smile, “Uncle Petyr,” she purrs as he kisses her hand. “I’ve missed you, dearly. You look well!” _Of course, he does, he’s only being fattening himself up on her aunt’s money._

He chuckles. “Oh, you don’t have to lie to your uncle. If you missed me, you’d visit more, sweet Sansa. The Vale has been quite dull without you. Maybe, this time, I won’t let you leave.” Sansa only gives him a tight smile, in return. Although, his tone is light, there’s a certain edge to his tone that leaves her nervous.

There’s a small cough, behind them, and Sansa relaxes, remembering her companion. “Oh, but I’ve been rude.” She releases Petyr’s hand and finds Jon’s arm, immediately. “This is Jon, my fiancée, I wrote to you about him, remember?”

“Pleased to meet you, Sir.” Jon greets, pleasantly enough. Sansa can feel how tense he is, under her touch.

Baelish looks unimpressed, for a fraction of a second, before he smooths his face into one of his practiced, genial grins. “Ah, so this is the man who’s captured my niece’s heart.” He leads them into the house, where there are already tens of people milling about, drinking champagne and indulging in finger food. “So, how did this happy accident happen?”

Sansa takes this moment to beam at Jon. She’d rather focus on the Southern agent, than Baelish, anyhow. “While I was studying up North, I met him. Jon’s an architect, and he was supervising the repairs on the walls. He’s worked on a bunch of projects, there’s a bridge, I must show you, Uncle, it’s absolutely stunning.”

Jon Snow manages a convincing flush, and he shrugs, sheepishly. “She always exaggerates.”

“Huh,” Baelish, frowns, in deep thought. “Did you build the wall as well?”

The Southern agent cocks his head to the side, “Hm?”

“Well, boy, you’re built like a fighter.” Baelish throws his head back in laughter, “Not at all like a man who draws lines for a living.”

“I like to jog.” Jon Snow grits out.

Sansa gives her most convincing giggle, while digging her fingernails into his arm. “It’s been 2 years, and he still, tries to get me to go on his morning runs.”

This intrigues Baelish. “2 years! And we are only hearing now of this relationship?”

“I wanted to make certain, it was serious.” She supplies, with a shrug, grabbing a drink from passing waiter.

“You weren’t perhaps, ashamed, were you?”

She feels Jon tense under her touch, “ _Ashamed_?” he echoes, a growl deep in his chest. “Why would Sansa be ashamed?”

“You misunderstand me, Mister Snow.” Baelish shakes his head with a wry look. “The Starks, are quite the prestigious family. Anybody would pale in comparison. I meant no offense.”

Sansa wishes for nothing more than to slap that smile off his face. He means every offense in the world. But she has prepared herself for this. All these years, away from him, she has waited for this moment. So, she nods to Jon, and asks him to excuse her and Baelish, and she slips her arm into his waiting grasp.

Jon stares back, almost defiantly, but then he relents, turning away, knowing what must be done.

When she looks away from Jon, and into Baelish’s eyes, he looks ever so smug. “Sansa, dear, how I’ve missed you.” He drawls.

She smiles back, with one thought. _Bastard._

* * *

Jon finds her, later.

By then, she’s gotten as much information out of Baelish as possible. It’s a pity, that she leaves him now, without even one cut on his face, but she steels herself, knowing that that time is coming soon.

They don’t dare speak of specifics on the drive home, but Jon asks her simply enough if the party was too her liking, and she nods, quietly.

When they arrive at the hotel, she suggests they go on a walk, and he agrees. He takes her hand, rough calloused fingers slipping in between her own.

“What did you find out?”

“His plan is more extensive than we’ve thought. He’s got spies in nearly every major House.”

“Did you get names?”

“I did.” Sansa nods. “He mentioned in passing, that soon he’ll have nothing to fear. He’s building a weapon.” This gets Jon’s attention. “I couldn’t get much information. It’s been so long…he’s grown distrustful.”

“Did anything else happen?” There’s an odd edge to his voice.

“What do you mean?”

“Did he touch you?” The question startles her, and she looks at him, curiously. But his gaze is locked straight ahead.

After a pause, she nods. “He kissed me.” He had given her a chaste one, one she’d indulged him, in returning. It had been easy to do so. After another pause, she adds, “Does that bother you?” She means to tease him, to poke fun of their husband-wife roleplay.

But, there’s no chance for his reply, as two men materialize from the shadows, baring their teeth, and wielding flashing knives. Her initial reaction is to scoff, but then one of the men, roll up their sleeves, and she sees the wing of a mockingbird etched onto his skin.

_He belongs to Baelish._

Jon is already, all bunched muscles, and ready to pounce. She yanks on his jacket, harshly whispering into his ear, “Don’t. It’s a test.” In a louder, trembling voice, she calls out to the men, “What do you want?”

“Give us your money, and there will be no problem.” The skinny one, leers.

Jon lets out a disgruntled growl, mostly aimed at Sansa. She knows, he’s itching for blood, and he could win this fight easily. They both know that. But, that’s what Baelish wants, to be proven right. Jon pulls out his wallet and tosses it down.

“There!” He spits out.

The skinny one goes for the wallet, while the other has the nerve to get in Jon’s face with a malicious sneer. Sansa glares at the man, darkly. “Not so tough, are you now, pretty boy.” All of a sudden, then, Jon stumbles back into Sansa’s arms, his mouth bruised and bloody. She bears his weight with difficulty, clutching him to her chest.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jon snarls. His grey eyes are stormy with livid anger, as he watches the two men, retreat. He clumsily wipes at the blood, smearing red against his skin.

Sansa inhales a shaky breath, and takes his bloody hand in hers. “Let’s go.” He doesn’t seem to register her words, still staring off into the night, “Let’s go back.” She insists, once more.

Finally, he yields, his grip tightening, as they turn back together.

* * *

She dabs gently at the cut on his lip, and he hisses slightly at her touch. “Sorry,” she mumbles. He only stares back, with those murky grey eyes. The intensity of his gaze unnerves her, for it’s difficult to discern his emotions. Is he angry with her? Is he displeased with her? She wishes she didn’t care.

“You took the punch well.” She decides to say.

His smile is brittle, as he eyes his bruised reflection in the mirror. “I’ve taken harder hits. I should have shown him how to throw a real punch.”

Sansa frowns, “You’re supposed to be an architect. You would have blown our cover.”

Jon shakes his head with a scoff, “Any self-respecting Northern man would know how to throw a punch, architect or not.”

_How would you know that?_ She wants to say. Instead she glares, “You would have killed them with one blow.”

Baelish was right. Jon is undeniably built like a fighter, a _killer._ It’s made even more apparent with his top stripped off, broad shoulders and muscles on display in the dim bathroom lights. His very presence emanates danger. She wonders why, there’s so little fear to be had.

“I’m going to shower.” He mumbles, breaking into her thoughts. She nods and leaves, then, his bloodied shirt in hand.

As if on cue, her burner phone vibrates. She briefly contemplates ignoring it, but tucks that thought away with a tired, “Hello?”

It’s Brienne, calling for an update. She dutifully fills in her superior, detailing the information Baelish shared with her.

“A weapon?” Brienne echoes, her voice, sharp and bright with careful interest.

“Yes,” She confirms. “He says, soon he’ll have nothing to fear. He’d probably have the plans somewhere locked up in the mansion. Shall Jon and I move to retrieve them?”

The other end is quiet, as Brienne stews in thought. “I’ll have to speak with the Southern delegate. But, most likely, that is what your plan of action will be. These plans, Sansa, they can benefit us, too.”

Sansa’s stomach roils uneasily, “What do you mean?”

“Whatever weapon Baelish has, doesn’t need to go to waste. I have no doubt that South will agree to retrieve the plans, and instruct for the weapon’s destruction. But, I also suspect, they’ll have Agent Snow, steal the plans and bring it back for the South.”

“What do you need me to do?” It’s a hollow phrase, one she’s repeated so many times when she’s already known the answer, just as she does, now.

“Retrieve the plans with Agent Snow, you’ll need his help. When you’ve got the plans, kill Agent Snow.”

* * *

It’s almost an hour, later, when Jon emerges out of the bathroom.

By, that time, she’s drunk off of half a bottle of vodka, and dancing along to Solomon Burke’s _Cry to Me_ , in one of Jon’s dress shirts.

Jon leans against the bathroom door frame, with a bemused half-smile. Wearing a ratty t-shirt over boxer shorts, and his wire-frame glasses, it’s easy to imagine him as her actual fiancé, and not some enemy agent, that she’s just been ordered to kill. So she thinks, for now, _fuck that._ Right now, they are not Agent Stark and Agent Snow. They are just Jon and Sansa, two people sharing a hotel room.

She grabs her sunglasses from the coffee table, black cat-eye frames that she purchased from the French boutique. She slips them on while twirling to face Jon, “You forgot to put away one of your shirts, so now, I’m going to wear it bed.” She says, by way of explanation, not once, pausing from her dancing.

“Are you?” His tone is light,

“Yes,” She says, rather, loftily. “I am. But, first, you’re going to dance with me.”

He blanches, immediately. “Sansa,”

She shakes her head, and stamps her foot like a petulant child. “It’s no fun dancing, by yourself. I need a partner.”

“No.” He grumbles out.

“No, as in you don’t want to dance, are you don’t know how to?” She challenges. Sansa sways, to the music, all the while, moving closer to him with a tipsy grin on her red lips.

“We’ll call it both.” Jon grits out.

She reaches for his hands, and though his face, looks almost comically pained, his body begins to move, matching her drunken swaying. Soon enough, he relaxes, and there’s a small smile tugging on his lips, which she spots victoriously.

He’s especially handsome, when he smiles, she decides. She doesn’t love him (she’s not ridiculous), but there are times, little moments, they’ve shared, that makes her think, she could grow to love him, in another life.

Jon notices, her bright stare, “What are you thinking about?”

“I was thinking, you’re rather pretty.” She says, truthfully. “I noticed it, when we first met, but I didn’t say it then.” The words just spill out of her mouth, before she can help it. But, she figures, _what the hell?_ The South most likely, instructed him to kill her as well. So at the end of all this, one of them will be dead. So, she might as well just say what’s on her mind, while she can.

She waits for him to tense up, to retreat, but he does neither of these things. There’s only tenderness in his touch, as he pulls her closer, against his warm chest.

“Funny,” He gives a little laugh, against her hair.

 “I was thinking the same thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you guys enjoyed!!! thanks for all the support :)


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